


One Day...

by EarendilEldar



Series: Days of the First Age [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Angst and Tragedy, Did I Mention Angst?, Family Issues, First Age, Heavy Angst, Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, M/M, Melancholy, Sexual Frustration, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Tragic Romance, Vignette, Years of the Trees, maybe if they'd thrown out the rule book things wouldn't have gone so horribly all the time?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarendilEldar/pseuds/EarendilEldar
Summary: Mostly Fingon's POV.  Despite everything that Fingon and Maedhros have been through, Fingon keeps hoping for the day they can finally be together, for good.Part 1 spans from pre-Silmarils to just before Mereth Aderthad.Part 2 - Aderthad to Nirnaeth.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: Days of the First Age [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608358
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

The skies and all the land about wore a particular pale brownish-grey. The light was wan and offered little comfort in this remote, chilly country. The trees they rode under were tall and thin but bare, their spent brown leaves sere and crunching under hooves. The atmosphere was solemn as a funeral march and was reflected in the silent countenances of the retinue as they passed. 

Fingon knew that he alone felt a sense of calm and ease. The late autumn weather wasn’t exactly cheering, no, but it did encourage taking refuge by crackling firesides and long hours of reading or making music. Quiet, peaceful pursuits - the things Fingon desired most; the things that for so long had seemed so far out of reach. If it suppressed any inclination to liveliness and boisterousness in his fellow travellers, so much the better, as Fingon saw it.

Fingon shifted his cloak closer about him as a melancholic mood began to overtake that sense of comfort. The riders were losing the meagre light of day as they proceeded, slower than they would have otherwise but that the mood of the very land didn’t forbid them to quicken the pace. That pale grey was slowly coming more slate-like, and just as cold. Night would be fallen before they reached the hill-fort. Fingon tried to ignore the stinging sensation in his heart that said that the one thing he desired above all else would never be in reach.

* * *

Smiles were an outmoded livery here in Middle Earth, but once they had been worn as commonly as plaits and tunics. That was in Tirion. That was before. That was when it would have been uproarious if anyone had suggested such a thing as brother supplanting brother or naked steel bared against any Firstborn.

But even then there were divisions, lines better not crossed… at least while anyone else might know of it. Those divisions were non-existent in the woodland that swept down from Túna toward the harbour, for the trees told no tales. And there were certain places that only they knew, like the thicket overgrown with ivy that for years was their make-believe hideaway - sometimes a palace, sometimes a hunter’s lodge, sometimes a forge, sometimes a ship. Over time, though, it became a sanctuary and a vault of secrets as childhood friendship grew deeper, almost to spite their families growing ever further apart.

“I should go soon,” Maedhros said softly, even as he held Fingon close. “I think father’s getting suspicious, and if he should ever send Tyelkormo to track us, we would be found in minutes.”

“I think it’s ridiculous,” Fingon said petulantly. “ _My_ father would never send someone to -”

“I know, Káno,” Maedhros sighed, “but there we are, and I suspect that arguing about how our respective families handle things is precisely why things are like this.”

“You are correct, I know. I’m sorry, Timo. It’s just that it feels as if we only just got here. And I think of you constantly when we’re apart and long to be beside you again, like this.”

“As I long for you, my valiant one,” Maedhros said, dipping his head to kiss a tender spot just under Fingon’s ear.

Fingon reached up and threaded his fingers in Maedhros’s long, silky red hair as he turned his face up to Maedhros’s and turned that affectionate little kiss into a much deeper one. It didn’t ebb after a few moments as their kisses usually did, though. Instead it surged on and on like a consuming tidal wave, their lips and hands only growing hungrier for more. 

Then their hips clashed and it was like a sudden bolt of lightning striking. Both stopped immediately, their eyes wide and a bit afraid. There was no mistaking what they both knew they felt, no excuses to be made even if they weren’t both struck dumb. 

Maedhros was the first to recover enough to shift away slightly and mutter an apology. 

“Not your fault, Timo,” Fingon said quietly. “I took that kiss further than you intended, I’m sorry.”

Maedhros just shook his head, finding it hard, for the first time, to meet Fingon’s eyes. “Maybe one day,” he said hesitantly, “when we won’t have to seek permission to court….”

“Aye,” Fingon said, resignedly. Deep down, he knew that if Fëanor’s permission was required, that day would never come.

“I’d better go,” Maedhros said, stroking Fingon’s cheek consolingly. “I’ll see you at the feast tomorrow, yes?”

Fingon nodded, doubting they would have the opportunity to so much as drink a glass of cordial together at the feast, but yes, they would see one another. And it would have to suffice.

* * *

It wasn’t long after that that seeing one another even at feasts was no more to be, and meeting one another in secret places was all but impossible. Things swiftly went from bad to worse between Finwë’s elder sons and Maedhros and Fingon rarely even caught sight of one another in the same areas of the city. All seemed irretrievably lost that terrible day when Fëanor openly threatened Fingolfin’s life – only for Fingolfin to just as publicly forgive Fëanor only five years later. 

For the briefest moment imaginable, Fingon had entertained the notion that that reconciliation might be furthered and cemented if he and Maedhros made their feelings known and told their families that they wished to court. That hope faded with the Two Trees and died entirely with Finwë.

When Fëanor called for the Noldor to abandon the West, despite having little love for his uncle, Fingon threw his support behind the idea of venturing to the East. In the back of his mind, Fingon thought the east might hold a new freedom for them. If he could follow Maedhros, then maybe they could seek out a land of their own there – away from the old rules about things and the strife of their fathers.

There hadn’t been much opportunity to speak to Maedhros about his hopes, but Fingon knew they’d find a moment, eventually, to just be alone together. Maybe when they reached the Swanhaven….

When his host arrived to find a battle engaged, Fingon hadn’t thought twice about rallying to Maedhros’s aid. It wasn’t until later that Fingon learned that it was Fëanor who had lead the attack on the Falmari that stained the city of pearl in the blood of their kin. The conflict he’d felt deep inside drove Fingon to stay out of everyone’s way – he didn’t want to talk to his father or siblings, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to be around Maedhros at the moment either. 

And yet, Maedhros was also the only one he wanted to see. Maedhros was surely the only one who could make any sense of all this atrocity. There had been no time between Alqualondë and Araman for him to take Maedhros aside, and then in that desolate land the decision was taken to make the crossing to Losgar. Fëanor and his followers, naturally, went first. 

Fingon desperately wished he could have spoken with Maedhros; Finarfin had turned back at the warning of Mandos and though Finrod was determined to press on, Fingon was filled with misgivings. Maybe Finarfin was right and they should repent while they still could – go back to Tirion and seek forgiveness and live quiet, peaceful lives. Let Fëanor go and retrieve his jewels and exact vengeance upon the dark Vala if he was so stubborn and foolish to try! There was no reason he and Maedhros should have to be caught up in it.

But Maedhros was onboard a swanship going out to sea, and the last Fingon saw of him for the next seven years was the tallest red-haired Elf, standing on the rail of the ship’s stern, holding onto a stay line as he looked back to the shore.

* * *

The world had changed immeasurably in the space of a few years, it was the difference between night and day – most literally. So many had been lost, frozen to death on the Ice. And of those who survived and came through… most would never be the same again. His once vivacious and gregarious brother was now grim and haunted, as though no light would shine again since he’d lost Elenwë. Fingon was certain that if it wasn’t for Idril, he’d have lost his brother to grief. 

When Fingolfin’s host came to the Mithrim lakeside and found Fëanor’s people encamped, they rode on to the other end of the lake to make their own camp. Messages were not exchanged between the camps, but Fingon’s attention was fixed on Fëanor’s host, searching for a tent flying Maedhros’s personal standard or for a glimpse of that red hair above the rest of the crowd. 

Months went by. Fingolfin’s camp was established, within sight of Fëanor’s. But still no messages were exchanged. Many a night Fingon spent sitting by the lake, looking toward Fëanor’s camp, hoping for something, some sign that Maedhros was looking back. Eventually, it began to occur to Fingon that there was something unusual on the far side of the water. Where was Fëanor’s tent, which surely should have been larger than the rest? And nowhere was Fëanor’s personal banner flown, nor was Maedhros’s for that matter. Fingon began to fear what might have occurred during the years of their separation and at last determined to break this stubborn, prideful stalemate and simply ride to Fëanor’s camp himself.

The new light of morning was not yet rising behind the black mountains that lie east of Mithrim when Fingon approached the fortified encampment. An Elf stepped toward him, keeping a tight grasp on a spear which appeared mainly a demonstration of authority rather than a direct threat. Fingon dropped his hood to show his face and the guard did likewise, revealing a dark-red shade of hair and an uninviting countenance.

“Atyarussa,” Fingon said with a nod as he dismounted.

“Did your father send you, Findekáno? Why does he not come to speak with us himself?” Amrod asked.

“No one sent me, Atya. I have come of my own volition, because I have had enough of this silence and division,” Fingon said. 

“You will not find what you seek here. Yet, if you wish to speak to my brother, I shall not bar your entry,” Amrod said, turning to open the gate. “I cannot lead you in, I am posted here till Arien draws the fruit of Laurelin into the skies. You will find his tent in the center of the camp, though.”

“I am grateful,” Fingon said sincerely, going through. “Where is your twin, though? I think I’ve never seen you without -”

“Amras is dead,” Amrod said bluntly. “Charred, at the bottom of the haven.”

“Eru…,” Fingon breathed, his eyes gone wide.

“Don’t bother him. He has no interest in us,” Amrod said curtly, returning to his post and closing the gate behind him.

Fingon left his horse near the gate, sympathy in his heart for the loss of Maedhros’s youngest brother, a pain he knew all too well, and walked inward through the camp, looking for Maedhros’s sigil. 

“What are you doing here, son of Aracáno?” came a low voice from someone sat beside a tent. Fingon looked to find Caranthir, the glow of a small fire only emphasizing the firelight that had always shown in his face and eyes.

“I come to speak with -”

“You will not find him here,” Caranthir said bitterly. “Why did your father send _you_ in his stead? Does he mean still to claim the title?”

“No one sent me and no one seeks a title, Carnistir,” Fingon said as patiently as he could. “Atyarussa said I would find his tent at the center of the camp…. And I am sorry for the loss of -”

“We do not speak of it,” Caranthir snapped, frowning deeply. “I should relieve my brother. I would tell you to wait, but that I know that Makalaurë has been awake at least the last hour. Center of the camp.” Caranthir pointed the way, then rose and stalked off toward the gate. 

Fingon took a deep breath and continued on the way Caranthir had indicated. Valar, but he was even grimmer these days than he had been in Tirion! And what, Fingon wondered, did it matter when Maglor woke? When he came to the center, Fingon still could not find Maedhros’s standard, nor Fëanor’s, and only saw Maglor’s tent with its flaps drawn back and quiet music coming from inside.

“Makalaurë?” Fingon called from beside the entrance.

The music stopped at once but Fingon heard no movement inside the tent for a moment. Then Maglor appeared at the entrance. Fingon didn’t know when he’d seen Maedhros’s musical brother looking so tired. 

“Greetings, cousin,” Maglor said. “Please come in.” Fingon stepped in as Maglor unbound the tent flaps to close them before turning to stir the small fire in the iron ring. “Won’t you sit? We don’t have much to share, but I can at least offer some tea.”

“Makalaurë, forgive me but I did not come for tea,” Fingon said, tiring of the secretive atmosphere in Fëanor’s camp. 

Maglor sighed and sat back down where he’d been playing his harp. “I know you did not. And of course I know who you seek. But please be seated, for what I have to tell you of will not be easy to bear.”

Fingon took a deep breath as the darkest dread he’d known yet began to fill him. He slowly moved to sit, wondering if he would have sensed it if something had happened to Maedhros. They had never joined, no, but surely they were closer than brothers and Fingon had known immediately – felt the slicing blow himself so much that he couldn’t believe his own armour wasn’t rent – when Argon was killed in battle.

“Where is he?” Fingon asked quietly when Maglor didn’t seem immediately forthcoming.

Maglor looked up with pain and fear in his eyes. “He was taken by the Enemy, Findekáno. We were attacked shortly upon our arrival. Father was stricken and no healing could avail him. His fëa dwells now with our grandfather, and my baby brother. After that, the Enemy called for us to treat with him and make terms. Russo went warily and with a strong host, but they were overpowered and he was captured. And I fear now that they put my brother to torment, but we have not the strength to assail those evil lands. The Enemy says that he will free Russo if we depart this land, but… how can we believe that? And even if we do remove from here, my father’s oath has damned us all to this quest to whatever end.”

Fingon sat stunned as he listened to Maglor tell him of all that had transpired since Fëanor’s abandonment of his brother’s people on the shores of Araman, and he wept silently when Maglor told him that Maedhros had wanted to send a ship back immediately to collect him and had refused to support Fëanor’s burning the ships.

* * *

In heavy despair, Fingon returned to his father’s camp and spoke to none for some while. Alone he sat in his tent, deep in old memories of happy days in Tirion – laughing and playing with Maedhros, running and hiding from little Maglor who always wanted to tag along with the ‘big’ boys; and how their games had grown with them… laughing not from childhood mischiefs but from too much wine, hiding not from little brothers but from all the world. 

None of them had taken many possessions when they departed for the cold north, only what they each could bear for themselves and only what would be of use on the journey. Fingon, however, had several items he could not bear to leave behind. The beautiful golden harp had been a gift from Maedhros who said that he liked Fingon’s singing even better than Maglor’s. And the short blade he wore proudly had been one of Maedhros’s only efforts to come out of a forge house. Though the more skillful swordsmen had said it was but a passable handiwork that likely wouldn’t be useful for much more than a hunting knife, Fingon, whose proficiency was greater in archery than swordplay, said it was comfortable to grip and not unwieldy and so Maedhros had gifted it to him.

While Fingon sat alone and ruminating, the two estranged camps had begun to notice changes in the dark land beyond the shadowy mountains. Dark fumes were issuing forth daily and casting a pall over the land about Mithrim, such that the new lights that governed the day and night were often blotted out and it was like the days of darkness had returned. The land under them began to tremble and rumble almost constantly and those who recognized the effect of forges knew that there was great, heavy industry underway in the Enemy’s fortresses. 

The shaking of the very earth seemed to shake Fingon out of his depression and he could no longer accept doing nothing, cowering, waiting until Morgoth brought his full force down upon them and destroyed his people entirely. He knew that nothing would facilitate their demise faster than a refusal to stand together against their Enemy – and that to remain divided was precisely Morgoth’s design even from the first days of his unchaining. 

Moreover, his heart would no longer accept leaving Maedhros to bear the tortures of Angband. Perhaps their people could not yet marshal an army formidable enough to challenge the evil of the mightiest of the Valar, but Fingon knew that sometimes stealth prevailed where force was unavailing. 

And so, under the cover of Morgoth’s own darkness, Fingon armed himself and stole away from the camp alone. He was determined that he should free Maedhros from torture, or die in the attempt, and bring their families back into the bonds of kinship that had once been what mattered most.

* * *

There was little that Fingon remembered very clearly in the days after Thorondir had returned him and Maedhros to Mithrim. He knew he’d not left that healer’s tent for a minute, except to physically pull Caranthir and Curufin out of the tent and threaten to personally deliver them to the Enemy in Maedhros’s place if they dared disturb their brother with their clamorous quarrels.

He knew he’d eventually fallen asleep on the ground beside the palate Maedhros lie comatose upon and neither woke for some time. When Fingon did wake, Maedhros’s eyes were half-lidded though not yet awake. At that, Fingon was relieved, for it could only mean that Maedhros was beginning to heal and his fëa regaining strength. Every day, Fingon bathed Maedhros’s wounds with the tincture provided by the healers and held his hand and talked to him of everything and nothing.

One afternoon Fingon took up his golden harp and began to play a soft, sad song of longing for happier days and the fairer land they once knew. He almost thought he’d dreamed hearing his name in a broken rasp but the trembling hand that touched his sleeve was unmistakable. 

“Maitimo!” Fingon whispered, almost dropping his harp as he knelt beside Maedhros’s bed and clasped his hand tenderly. 

“No…,” Maedhros breathed despondently. “Say not that he’s taken you, too. This of all I cannot bear! Please!”

“No, Timo,” Fingon murmured soothingly, stroking Maedhros’s dry, brittle, and too-short hair. “Do you not remember? I’ve brought you away from there. We are in the healing tent. See?” he said, opening the lantern beside the bed a little wider to illuminate their surroundings.

“You were there? I thought… I thought I’d dreamt… I thought my wits had gone….”

“No, my darling. You’re safe now. And awake again, and soon you will be as well as ever.” Fingon found it difficult to speak at all, choked with tears of relief.

“No, Káno…,” Maedhros started, his voice faltering in a rasp again. 

“You will, I promise you. But, Timo, you must rest now. Please. I will go fetch a healer, yes? And let your brothers know you are -”

“Where are they?” Maedhros asked urgently.

“Here, in the camp. They are well,” Fingon said, stroking Maedhros’s hair again, hoping to keep him calm as he clearly did not yet have the energy to spend getting upset.

“Please, Káno, I cannot see them yet,” Maedhros said tiredly. “Not yet. Not…. But… Laurë. I would see Laurë.”

Fingon was inclined to agree that Maglor was Maedhros’s only brother empathetic and mild enough not to overwhelm him as soon as he was wakened. “Very well. I will fetch Makalaurë and a healer. You will rest.”

Maedhros just nodded compliantly and let his eyes fall half-closed again. When Fingon emerged from the tent, it was to find Maglor already waiting nearby. A look between them and a nod was all that Maglor needed and he went to sit with his brother while Fingon sought the nearest healer. When they returned, Fingon took up the place Maglor had occupied outside the tent, unwilling to intrude on the brothers’ reunion.

As Fingon sat there, consciously not listening in on the quiet conversation behind the canvas, a young Elf approached, still attired in a smith’s apron, his hair bound in a single long plait. Fingon was tired and didn’t look up fully, unwilling to give any updates when Maedhros had asked him not to do so, especially after the confrontation he’d already had days earlier with Curufin.

“I know you are weary, I’ll see if I can bring you some cordial, but… is my uncle going to live?” the Elf asked quietly.

At that, Fingon looked properly. “Telperinquar. Forgive me… you look so much like your father. Yes, Maitimo is recovering. He still needs to rest, though. And you needn’t seek out cordial. I will be well enough, and there are some who I expect would begrudge me taking any more of your resources.”

Celebrimbor shook his head, though. “After what you did, you deserve much more than a dram of cordial. Many of our people were shamed enough when your people arrived here as you did, but I think they will not countenance anyone denying you and your family this time. Your valour is honourable beyond compare. You shall have sustenance here, as one of our family.”

Fingon sat silently for a long moment, just looking at Maedhros’s nephew. Then he nodded, touching his own shoulder, and said, “I think you will be a fine leader one day, and a credit to our people. Thank you, Telperinquar.”

The young smith nodded back and departed then, and when Maglor emerged with the healer they told Fingon that he should remain there, close to Maedhros, for his presence was clearly the best tonic for Maedhros’s many injuries. When Fingon re-entered the tent, he found Maedhros asleep again and so sat down beside him and allowed himself sleep as well. Dreaming of contented, warm days in Aman, Fingon slept through even Telperinquar leaving a flagon of miruvor on the table in the healing tent.

* * *

“Maitimo, what are you doing?” Fingon asked, returning to the tent one afternoon.

“Changing my bandage,” Maedhros said through the end of a strip of gauze between his teeth.

Fingon sighed and knelt beside Maedhros, reaching for the dressing. “Here, give it to me. You should have called -”

“No, let me do it!” Maedhros snapped, pulling his arm away and then gasping sharply at the pain the movement awoke in his shoulder.

Fingon sat back a bit on his heels. He was beginning to remember how stubborn Maedhros could be, especially when he felt things weren’t going well for him. “Perhaps we can do it together, until you become more adept – which will only take a bit of time and patience.”

“The sooner I learn to do it for myself, the sooner everyone can cease treating me like a precious, fragile bauble,” Maedhros grumbled darkly.

“You’re not a bauble. And you are most assuredly not fragile,” Fingon said quietly. “But you _are_ very much loved, Timo.”

Maedhros sat glaring into the corner of the tent to avoid making eye contact with Fingon for some while. Then he slowly pushed himself up and paced away a few steps, leaning on the back of a chair for support.

“Is it true?” Maedhros asked.

“Is what true?” Fingon said, shifting to sit on the corner of Maedhros’s bed.

“That you walked into the Enemy’s land completely alone.”

“Yes, it is,” Fingon said.

“Why would you do that?” Maedhros asked, an edge of bitterness in his voice.

“Because sometimes strength of numbers isn’t what is needed. Sometimes one must -”

“You could have been taken by them!” Maedhros would have shouted if he’d had the energy. Instead it came out more as desperation.

“But you _were_ taken, Maitimo. And I could bear that no longer. I swore to myself that I should bring you back here or perish myself in trying, but I would not leave you to them.”

Maedhros was silent for a long time before moving back to the bed and sitting on the opposite side. Finally, he spoke quietly, saying, “I need to speak with your father. The sooner, the better. Though, I think I should go to his camp, instead of sending for him to attend here.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Timo? You shouldn’t be travelling, even so short a distance as the other side of the lake. Atar can come here.”

Maedhros shook his head. “No. Not for what I must speak of with him. I will endure it. It cannot be done any other way. I will go on the morrow.”

Fingon sighed but knew it was useless to argue. He had no idea what Maedhros meant to talk with his father about, but if Maedhros was set on it there was nothing else for it. Rising and turning to leave, Fingon said, “Very well. But I will go with you. You do not know the passwords for the gates of our encampment, so you shall need me.”

“Yes, I shall,” Maedhros said quietly as he laid down upon the bed, careful not to put weight on his sore shoulder.

* * *

The stares Maedhros received as they rode through Fingolfin’s camp were hardly unexpected, except that they were by and large more saddened than angered at the sight of Fëanor’s eldest. And ‘camp’ hardly described the fortification. Whereas the sons of Fëanor were only beginning the work of building foundations, the majority of dwellings in Fingolfin’s purview were solid stone with only a few still living in tents. Interestingly, four of those tents bore the personal devices of Fingolfin, Fingon, Turgon, and Aredhel. That told Maedhros as clearly as anything that he had made the right decision and should not be swayed from it.

Maedhros refused Fingon’s assistance dismounting and insisted that Fingon not accompany him inside the tent. He had refused to speak with Fingon of his intention since the day before and Fingon was growing worried that Maedhros meant to offer some foolish redress to his father’s brother.

When Maedhros emerged after some while, he looked tired but somehow more at ease than Fingon remembering seeing him since before the days of Darkness. “I need rest, Káno, ere I return to my camp on the morrow,” Maedhros said, allowing himself to lean slightly on the arm Fingon offered.

“I wish you would rest longer than a day,” Fingon said, “but I know you too well. Come to my tent, and I shall find us a meal.”

That evening as Fingon and Maedhros sat beside the fire-ring in Fingon’s tent and took a simple supper, Fingon looked up at Maedhros and spoke softly. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to speak with you about, Timo. Well, more than one thing, really, but… I cannot speak of one without first speaking of the other.”

Maedhros gave a bare ghost of a smile and said, “Ever have I enjoyed riddles, but I think my mind not yet ready for such vigorous sport. Speak plainly, Findekáno, and I shall hear whatever you wish to say to me.”

Fingon took a deep breath and reached out to touch Maedhros’s right arm. “I’ve needed to apologize to you,” he said quietly. “Though you’ve never brought it up, I can’t bear for it to stand between us unspoken. If I could have but undone that chain or that gyve, if I could have brought you down by any other way…. I’m sorry for what I had to do; that you now must bear this hardship because of me.”

“Of what do you speak?” Maedhros asked, unsure about what Fingon could possibly be so contrite.

“Your hand,” Fingon said. “I’m sorry. I saw no other way.”

Maedhros looked at Fingon for a few very long moments but the vacantness of his stare suggested that he was not seeing the Elf in front of him at all. “I thought it was the Enemy that had done this, just one of his torments,” Maedhros whispered as his vision cleared slowly.

“No. It was I,” Fingon murmured miserably.

“I heard your song… there in that awful place. I begged you to give me the release of death….”

“I… I almost did, if it had not been for -”

“Findekáno, you apologise to me for this, but it is I who should beg your forgiveness. I should never have asked such a horrible thing of you.”

“No one could fault you, Maitimo. But when the eagle of Manwë came and bore me up to you, I could not countenance not bringing you back alive.”

“So, this is not a mark of torture and evil that I bear, but one of love and valour. It is the reason I have a chance to set things right, if ever I can, and I shall wear it with honour. Do not ask forgiveness for saving me, and never think I hold you blameworthy, for anything.”

Fingon said nothing for a long moment, then he looked up at Maedhros again and spoke hesitantly. “The other thing I’ve been thinking of, Timo…. We have the chance to set the past behind us and our families. I know it may take some time to bring them all around, but… your father was the only one who would have seriously objected for any length of time. And now, here we are in this new land, with so much potential. And, after all, who can gainsay the King’s choice of Prince Consort?”

Maedhros, though, ducked his head and shook it. “No, Káno, I am no one’s King.”

“You will continue to regain your strength, Timo. The fire in you rekindles daily -”

“It is not because of my wounds. It is because I have gifted the title to your father, in repayment of my father’s treachery and faithlessness, and all that your people suffered because of mine.”

Fingon sat thunderstruck. “Maitimo, you cannot… you cannot mean this!”

“I do mean it, Findekáno. I am no king and never could be, Makalaurë would never accept such a title for himself, and not for the first moment would I consider passing that sort of power to any of the younger of my brothers.”

“Oh, Timo….”

Maedhros sighed softly. “We could not yet as it is, Káno,” he said gently. “The Enemy will not lie in silence forever until we have prevailed once and for all. And we could not consider such a thing until there is peace for our people. If we dared it and were rent asunder… neither of us should survive with but half a fëa.”

Fingon said nothing for a long time, then rose and walked to the tent’s entrance and asked, “Shall we ever see such a peace?” before stepping outside and walking down to the lakeside.

* * *

The next months went much as Fingon expected they would after Maedhros informed his brothers of his abdication to Fingolfin. Maglor supported Maedhros’s decision, but was quietly concerned that it could lead to even greater divisions than some of Fëanor’s actions. Amrod was entirely disinterested in the whole thing. Caranthir, Celegorm, and Curufin, however, were livid and made no attempt to disguise their fury with their eldest brother. 

Once Fingolfin managed to negotiate with Thingol for the use of more of the northern realms of Beleriand, several of Maedhros’s brothers began to call for Fingolfin and Finrod’s people to remove further into the unoccupied lands east of Doriath. Maedhros refused to support that idea until he knew more about the eastern wilderness. Once the scouting reports came back, Maedhros decided that it should be the sons of Fëanor who took possession of those lands. 

By then even Fingon was arguing against Maedhros’s plans, angered and hurt that he would freely choose to relocate his people so far away from Fingon’s family. It felt like Maedhros was rejecting any attempt to bring their families together formally and distancing himself from Fingon altogether. He couldn’t escape the bitter thought that maybe that was what Maedhros wanted – to be away from Fingon and perhaps even to choose another. After all, had it not always been Maedhros who was the first to pull away when their touches grew too familiar or their feelings rose too near the surface?

As usual, though, despite all arguments to the contrary, Maedhros’s mind was made up and there was no shifting him from it. Several days before the sons of Fëanor were due to set out on the journey eastward, Fingon came to their camp before the first morning light.

As it was the first time Fingon approached the camp of the sons of Fëanor on the shores of Mithrim, at the gate sat a young Elf who seemed far too young to be given a night watch. This one had not the striking red hair of Amrod, but wore his dark hair in a single plait and was meticulously polishing some small object in his hand.

Fingon waited a moment to see if Curufin’s son would notice him before clearing his throat and saying, not with any real rebuke or unkindness, “It is fortunate I am not an enemy, for I could have put you upon a pike before you’d noticed anything was amiss.”

“Valar!” Celebrimbor gasped, dropping the little shining talisman and jumping to his feet. “Forgive me, my Prince Fingon!”

Fingon couldn’t help laughing as he dismounted. “Please, call me not by such titles. I take no pleasure in that station at all. And I see that the young of our people are adopting the native tongue of this land rather readily. Already my niece calls herself ‘Idril’ now, when Itarillë is so much lovelier. I think the day will soon be upon us when no one speaks our old high speech anymore.”

Celebrimbor just ducked his head and muttered an apology.

“Never mind,” Fingon said, a hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “Mayhap the old ways are just that. Have I your leave to enter, warden? I have need to speak with the lord of your camp.”

“Aye, you may have leave,” Celebrimbor said. “But, if I may offer advice to one my senior, I should avoid my father’s side of the camp entirely.”

“Understood,” Fingon nodded. Then he reached down to pick up from the dusty ground the little silver object Celebrimbor had been working at. It was a clasp wrought in the form of a tree. Pinkish-yellow gems were set in the intricate branches like ripe fruits. “This is extraordinary workmanship,” Fingon said, handing it back to Celebrimbor. “This is where your skill lies. Not in door-warding.”

Inside the camp, Fingon moved quietly toward Maedhros’s tent, not at all certain that he would be awake yet. He was disproved rather quickly when he found Maedhros sitting in front of his tent, carefully cleaning a sword balanced upon his knees. Maedhros looked up at him but said nothing. He only sheathed his sword and rose, glancing back over his shoulder as he ducked into his tent. Fingon followed and closed the tent flaps behind him.

Maedhros put his weapon away and stirred and fed the fire before sitting beside it and gesturing to Fingon to join him. Neither said anything for several long minutes, then Maedhros spoke quietly.

“I know why you have come,” he said, his gaze remaining enthralled by the dancing fire.

“Do you, Timo? It seems strange to me that you and I should know anything of one another by now,” Fingon retorted. It came out somewhat more bitingly than he had intended.

At that, Maedhros looked up at his cousin. “I know you are angry with me, still. You are not the only one.”

“You don’t have to do this, Maitimo,” Fingon said, getting right to the point lest they spend the next week skirting the issue. 

“Yes, Findekáno, I do have to do this,” Maedhros said wearily.

“Timo… how are we to have any hope of challenging, let alone defeating, him if our people are spread across the breadth of this land?” Fingon plead desperately.

“We would have even less hope if my brothers are engaged in constant power-struggles with your people and our cousins. This way, we set up a line of resistance, a chain, united against him – instead of fragmented in one place - from the Blue Mountains unto the Sea. You know in your heart, as do I, that this is the way of wisdom.”

Fingon was silent again for a long while. Then he stood up and said, “What I know in my heart is pain, Maitimo. That every time we seem to have some chance at being together, of pursuing and manifesting the feelings I know to lie between us, something interferes and bars our way. And I know that I have told myself countless times that one day, I would do this no longer, that I would accept this fate and cease to beg for reconsideration. And maybe one day, I shall.”

Fingon turned and started toward the exit, but Maedhros gently caught his arm. “I would give anything to take that pain from you,” Maedhros whispered, “but I cannot. For I bear both the same pain and the full weight of my father’s curse. I’m sorry, Káno….”

Fingon kept his sight on the edge of the rug under his feet until he was certain that the tears he felt welling up wouldn’t spill over. Then he looked up at Maedhros’s scarred visage and saw the unfathomably deep regret in his eyes. “You always say ‘one day’…,” Fingon murmured.

Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment and a tear of his own slipped out. Then he breathed, “One day…,” and pulled Fingon into his arms, kissing him reverently but soundly.

* * *

Months and years passed and western Beleriand grew and flourished in the care of Fingolfin. Their original fortress on the lakeshore of Mithrim was relocated further east and set on a hill as a watchtower against Angband. Fingolfin made it his home and decreed that the King of the Noldor in Exile should chiefly dwell between his people and the Enemy. Turgon was charged with the keeping of the shore-lands and founded Vinyamar upon the mountain Taras, while Fingon was accorded the lands between Turgon’s and Fingolfin’s and began construction of his house in the foothills of the Ered Wethrin. 

Fingon and Maedhros continued to correspond regularly across the many miles between them. Maedhros wrote of the fortress he was building upon a mountain called Himring. He said that it was permanently cold and drafty, but he boasted the finest view of Thangorodrim east of the Sirion and said he would enjoy being able to stare Morgoth in the eye if he ever came out of his lair. Fingon was fairly sure he didn’t share Maedhros’s sense of humour about the whole situation.

As work on the new houses and cities of the Noldorin lords reached completion, Fingon and Fingolfin began talking of what would be needed for their peoples’ continued successful habitation on Beleriand. They both agreed that an alliance of Noldor alone was not sustainable and that bridges needed to be established with all Elf-kind, that they might together withstand Angband and find a way to defeat their shared Enemy. It was Fingolfin’s hope that all the peoples of the Eldar might be one again, as they had been in those fabled days at Cuivenen.

It was in the midst of planning the Mereth Aderthad that Fingon received an invitation to spend Amanar at Himring. Fingon debated with himself for a long while before sending his reply. He longed more than anything to see Maedhros again, but he feared that it would only make the inevitable re-separation all the worse. At last, Fingon’s hopeful heart won out over his reservations and he sent back the messenger with his promise to attend. 

And so Fingon prepared a small host and set out to see this new home of Maedhros’s upon what seemed to him the very edge of the world. As he did so, he couldn’t help thinking of the sadness in Maedhros’s eyes the last time he saw him upon the shore of Mithrim, and wondering when that ‘one day’ would arrive when they could take the pain from one another’s hearts. Or if such a day would ever be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

Fingon and his host had just been shown into the entrance hall, a large, lofty space flanked by two huge fireplaces that were most welcoming after the cold, dark ride in. The seneschal of the house asked them to wait while he announced their arrival and promised to have warm wine brought in shortly. Fingon nodded and suppressed a sigh at how different things had become – never before when visiting Maedhros had he been greeted by one of Maedhros’s ‘people’.

The rather officious brown-haired Elf had no sooner disappeared down a corridor then someone came running down the vast stone stairs and shouted, “Káno!” Fingon looked up to see Maedhros running toward him to catch him in a tight embrace. 

“Gods! At last you are here and I had meant to greet you at the gate but I could not get away from this _wretched_ council that claims all of my time. I’m so glad you’ve come, though. You must be hungry, and cold. I haven’t eaten yet, come on and we shall eat and drink before you get some rest. We have so much to talk of….”

Fingon just looked at him, wondering who was this Elf who bore the same scars as Maedhros, for Maedhros had _never_ chattered like an excited squirrel in all the years they’d known one another.

Maedhros didn’t seem to notice Fingon’s bewilderment, though, and just put his arm around Fingon’s shoulder and lead him away up the stairs, continuing his monologue, “Don’t worry about changing, it’s not terribly formal here and we can dine in my chambers. I’ve had rooms made ready for you. South-facing. They are the finest rooms in all of Himring, but if you wish to have anything changed, only say the word.”

“Maitimo, I’m certain everything is perfectly suitable…,” Fingon said, finally finding his voice, “but are you certain you wouldn’t rather I not come to dinner in travelling garments?”

Maedhros stopped and looked at Fingon for a long moment. “You mean to say you’d prefer a hot bath before you eat. Of course, I should have thought of that. Forgive me, Káno, I’m just so happy you are here. I’ve missed you very terribly.”

Fingon looked up at Maedhros and leaned into his embrace. “So I’ve missed you, Timo.”

“Come, let me show you your rooms and then I will take you to the baths and have something comfortable sent in for you to wear. You can join me in my chambers as soon as you like and I will have supper and wine waiting and warm.”

“That sounds a very nice welcome, thank you, Maitimo.” Fingon wished he knew why he suddenly felt choked with emotion or why this high, drafty fortress should feel more homely to him than even the house he had ordered and appointed for himself in fair Dor-lomín.

* * *

That night Fingon and Maedhros sat long beside the fire in Maedhros’s private chambers, drinking warm spiced wine and talking of the progress in their lands. Fingon was already tired from the journey and the wine seemed more potent than that to which he was accustomed and he found himself talking rather less guardedly than he might have otherwise. 

“Think you any of us shall ever know happiness and contentment here, Timo?” Fingon asked lethargically, watching the fire steadily wearing away at the white branches of birch. “My brother, I think, shall never be merry as he once was – he sits upon his mountain, staring out at the sea in discontent. I think he would happier if he could just… hide away from all the world forevermore.”

“I think your brother bears wounds deeper than mine,” Maedhros said quietly. “I have tried writing to him, sending gifts…. Everything is returned untouched, unaccepted. I’ve occasionally had replies from your sister, but they are short and polite and… well, Irissë never liked me as she does Tyel and Curvo.”

“How fares your nephew with them?” Fingon asked.

Maedhros shrugged. “His skillfulness increases daily, it seems. I daresay he will be the better of his father ere long.”

“I think him already the better of his father,” Fingon said bluntly.

“I cannot say I do not share that opinion,” Maedhros said. “He is the image of both of the Curufinwë and possesses a skill that may yet outshine them both. But his heart and fëa are wholly his own. I am very proud of him and it is my dearest hope that he shall follow his own way and somehow escape my father’s curse. In my heart I have not yet forgiven Curvo for bringing him into this. I had every intention of sending him back to Araman, with Amras….”

“And what of Makalaurë?” Fingon asked, hoping to bypass subjects like Araman and Losgar.

“He is well, though I think he is lonely. Sometimes, if I am walking the ramparts on a quiet night, I can hear him down in the valley, singing to Morilotë.”

“I still wonder that she did not come across, they were that devoted,” Fingon said. “I assuredly understand why your mother refused to come, and Curvo and Carnistir’s wives, but Morilotë I thought would be the last to stay behind.”

“She could not,” Maedhros said. “She had been with child.”

“I did not know your brother was a father,” Fingon said, surprised.

Maedhros shook his head, though. “I did not say she _had_ a child.”

“I don’t understand…,” Fingon murmured.

“We are very extraordinary people, Káno. Things unheard of befall us and none other. It was the reverse of what happened to my grandmother at father’s birth. Morilotë survived, but her baby did not. Laurë blames himself because it occurred shortly after he swore the Oath and he believes this exile now to be his only hope for redemption.”

“Eru…,” Fingon breathed. “I didn’t know.”

“My brother would not have had me tell you of it, but the hour is late and it is long since I’ve had this much wine. Tell me of our cousins, though. I hear little from them but I have gathered that they have greater success in dealings with Elwë than the rest of us.”

“That they do, thanks to their Telerin kinship, of course,” Fingon confirmed. “Findaráto and Artanis have several times been guests of the King of Doriath. I understand that Artanis stays there most frequently of late. It appears there is a certain lord - Celeporno or some such thing - in the court of Elwë….”

Maedhros raised a brow and said, “Well, whoever he is, I hope he is well-armoured!” 

“What need has he of armour if he can stand behind our cousin?” Fingon snickered.

At that Maedhros fell to laughing such as he had not since the days of his childhood in Tirion and he reached out to grasp Fingon’s hand in his. 

At Maedhros’s slight tug upon his hand, Fingon set his goblet aside and came to sit beside Maedhros in the soft, wide chair that was amply accommodating for two cuddled close.

“This,” Maedhros said softly. “This is what I have missed more than aught else. Thank you, Findekáno.”

Fingon, his head resting upon Maedhros’s shoulder, thought of how perfectly easy this reunion was and thought that, were he ever to speak his deepest heart to Maedhros, he could find no better time than that very moment. All that came out was a murmured, “Timo,” before Fingon was sound asleep.

* * *

The Mereth Aderthad was a rousing success. It was so much like those wonderful festivals in Tirion, with singing and dancing and feasting and drinking – only now with Elves who had never known the dances of Tirion and could teach them new songs. It gave Fingon such hope for their future in Beleriand. It didn’t matter that his brother still was not speaking to Maedhros or Maglor, or that none of Maedhros’s other brothers deigned to attend, or that Maglor couldn’t conceal the fact that he didn’t think much of King Thingol’s minstrel/messenger. The point was, they could all work together, the Elven realms and families – they could defeat the Enemy, eventually, and come to those days of peace at long, long last. 

Of course, the fact that he could be beside Maedhros again, all throughout the celebrations, smiling, laughing, dancing as they once had, also had something to do with Fingon’s hopeful opinion of the event. Oh, and how Maedhros could still dance as perfectly as he had in Tirion! His lack of a right hand was no hindrance even when the dance called for extensive swinging and Maedhros’s eyes were bright and joyful as Fingon’s gold-woven plaits spun out behind him and their robes were a swirl of crimson and richest blue.

When the days of feasting were concluded, Fingon invited Maedhros to stop at his home in Dor-lomín, hoping to draw out the happy mood and spend a little more time with Maedhros, in quieter, more intimate environs. He wasn’t entirely surprised when Maedhros graciously declined in favour of getting back to Himring; Fingon knew he was right that it wasn’t fair to Maglor to be left alone returning to the marches and having to manage the rest of their brothers. 

“But there will be much planning and coordination needed for this new alliance,” Maedhros had said consolingly. “Perhaps we shall have occasion to meet sometimes on our purpose.”

“I have no doubt,” Fingon said with some resignation.

Maedhros slipped his hand under Fingon’s glossy hair, brushing it back over his shoulder and resting his long fingers gently on the vein of Fingon’s neck as he leaned in for a kiss. “One day…,” Maedhros murmured before turning to go.

* * *

It was in Ladros when Maedhros and Fingon met next while at a council with Finrod. At least, it was meant to have been with Finrod, but the Lord of Ladros was called away several days before the council and so it was Angrod who stood in for his elder brother. 

The council was not a long-drawn-out affair and agreements were made rather readily between the realms of West and East Beleriand and Dorthonion. But on the last night of their stay, Fingon and Maedhros sat together in front of the fire in Finrod’s hall long after everyone else had gone to take their rest.

“I cannot help but think it strange Findaráto should leave so suddenly,” Maedhros said quietly. “And to give no clear indication to his brother – unless Angaráto is but putting us off, but I sense no deception in him.”

“I think it very strange, indeed,” Fingon said honestly. “And it concerns me greatly. Turo has been acting very strangely of late, also, and it started just after he and Findo returned from a journey along the Sirion. He’s been secretive, going off travelling utterly alone and speaking to none of where he went. I don’t know what he’s planning, and now to hear that Findo has been much the same…. I’m worried, Timo.”

Maedhros said nothing for a while, contemplating. Then said, “You don’t think something unlooked for has begun between them, do you? After all, they won’t have been the first in our families to sneak off to secret encounters….”

Fingon looked up at Maedhros and shook his head. “Not my brother. And most certainly not after Elenwë.”

“Our grandfather remarried,” Maedhros shrugged, though not particularly approvingly.

“Trust me, Timo. Not Turukáno. And, no, I do not think this secretiveness sinister or evil, but… I fear it nonetheless. I fear my father’s grand alliance may be splintering ere it is even tested. I think Turo means to abandon his city and remove his people to some far-away, unknown land and no longer answer calls to arms. If my guess is right, and if Findo means the same, how shall we stand without their forces?”

“You look like you think a stand is coming soon,” Maedhros said, reading the disquiet in Fingon’s features.

“I think it is, Maitimo. And we must be ready for it. All of us. But my heart tells me that it will not be over for a very long time. And I think that everything will change and change again ere there is peace. I see such suffering ahead, Timo…,” Fingon whispered, his head lowered.

Maedhros reached out and took Fingon’s hand in his. He knew that what Fingon was saying was that their ‘one day’ might yet be very far off indeed. Nonetheless, Maedhros leaned over and pressed a soft kiss just under Fingon’s ear, saying, “One day.”

* * *

It was there under the shadow of the very peaks of Thangorodrim where Maedhros, in his torment, had heard and responded to Fingon’s song that they met again after the Dagor Aglareb. Maedhros had seen Fingon’s banner across the field as the last of the orcish enemies were being slaughtered even as they ran and attempted to scramble up the steep slag slopes. He sheathed his sword, leaving his captains to finish the task, and rode quickly over the plain to the banners of blue and gold that streamed in the wind. 

When he spotted those plaits wound with gold, Maedhros leapt from his horse and ran to Fingon, catching him from behind and turning him into a crushing embrace. “Thank the Valar,” Maedhros murmured against Fingon’s hair.

“Not so tightly, Timo…,” Fingon gasped.

Maedhros jumped back and clasped Fingon’s shoulder, fear in his eyes. “How are you hurt? Why is there not a healer here, now, attending you?”

“Easy, Timo. I’ve been attended. I’ll be fine in a few days, my ribs are bound with healing herbs. Will be healed in no time.”

Maedhros sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t know, don’t be foolish.” Fingon looked further afield for a moment before nodding to his first lieutenant and then reached for Maedhros’s arm. “I have cordial in my tent. Come.”

As soon as they were into the tent, Fingon picked up the flask of cordial from the table and unfurled a map across it. 

“No, you need rest, Káno,” Maedhros said, splaying his hand upon the map as if to block any attempt at working. 

Fingon looked up at Maedhros and shook his head. “This isn’t over, Maitimo,” he said seriously. “This might have been a decisive victory, but it is only the beginning. We’re never going to be able to let up on them. We may not break the fortress of those mountains, but we can leaguer them. And so we must.”

“And so we _will_ , Findekáno. But not tonight. Tonight you must rest and heal,” Maedhros insisted. 

Fingon looked at Maedhros for a long moment before sighing. “The pain is more bearable when I am not resting, Timo.”

“I understand, truly,” Maedhros said, “but if you rest now, the pain will subside faster. Believe me. I’m rather well acquainted with pain.”

“That’s how I feel about this, Timo. The sooner we begin, the sooner it can be finished,” Fingon said, sinking into the nearest chair. “He will regroup, quicker than we can imagine, and start sending them against us again. We must have the strength to stand, for a long time. Then maybe we can gain peace,” Fingon said tiredly.

“One day,” Maedhros said, pouring a cup of cordial and handing it to Fingon.

* * *

Fingon, of course, had been correct – the glorious victory and extirpation of the orcs under Thangorodrim was only the start, and the world around them began to change so fast. First Turgon quit Nevrast and led his people to some hidden, secret land and then Finrod did the same. Commerce with Thingol’s people became nearly non-existent, but the Noldor began to trade with the Children of Aulë routinely.

When the Great Worm came forth from Morgoth’s hold and laid waste to the once-green marches of Ard-galen, the writing upon the wall grew clearer, even as Fingon’s bowmen rode down the scaly beast and drove it back into the mountains.

Maedhros rode out to Fingon again, as he had on the field of the Dagor Aglareb, but checked his impulse to throw his arms around Fingon until he was sure there was no injuries that he might aggravate. Fingon rode back to Himring after that and they took council for several days. 

There was little they could do beyond keeping up the siege. A direct attack was still out of the question, even though they knew they had the Enemy at a temporary disadvantage. The best they could do was to make wise use of the knowledge that the Enemy was enhancing his forces with such creatures as were never before known. 

“These beasts will return,” Fingon had said. “There will be more of them and they will be fully grown. That thing was little more than an inebriated newt as compared to what will surely come. We _must_ enhance our forces and concentrate our strength along these northern bounds. I fear that we will not have Turo’s strength or Findo’s. Most assuredly not Doriath’s. Who will balance that deficit?”

“It will be balanced,” Maedhros said confidently. “I know not how or by who, but I know that it will be. You’ll see, Káno, we will have allies. We will consolidate our power. We will know glory and a true, lasting peace that does not require ever-watchfulness.”

“One day?” Fingon said, with a raised brow.

“One day, my valiant one,” Maedhros said with a wry smile.

* * *

The years that followed after were cautious but little was heard or seen from Angband. A new hope was kindled for added strength for their defenses when the Second-born began to arrive in Beleriand. They were befriended quickly by Finrod and so Fingon and Fingolfin were also happy to extend their friendship and aid wherever they could.

The relative quiet also meant that travel between Himring and Dor-lomín became more routine and leisurely. Though there was still great vigilance throughout the north lands, for Maedhros and Fingon, their visits were much more as they had been in a bygone age when their families were merely divided.

It was during a mid-summer visit by Maedhros to Dor-lomín that Fingon received word that wounded him to the core and seemed to presage a turn from hopeful fortunes back into the days of darkness and despair. Maedhros found Fingon sitting alone in a secluded garden under a tree of fragrant, white, star-like flowers. Shock and sadness radiated from Fingon as he sat staring blankly.

Maedhros sat wordlessly beside him and opened his arms when Fingon turned to him and put his head upon Maedhros’s shoulder. Neither spoke for a long time and Maedhros held Fingon close as he trembled in heartache and anger.

“What word have you had, my darling?” Maedhros asked softly at last.

“Irissë,” Fingon whispered, his voice breaking.

“Oh, Káno…,” Maedhros murmured, “I’m so sorry….”

After a moment, Fingon rose and paced away a few steps. “She had been missing,” he said in disbelief, “and my brother never told me of it, nor father!”

“Missing? When?” Maedhros asked.

“More than 80 years gone!” Fingon cried. “I’d have gone to find her if I’d known of it, I’d have brought her home. What was my idiot brother thinking?!”

“Káno, please, come sit. Tell me what happened,” Maedhros said gently, knowing too well how such a loss could come between the brothers.

Fingon didn’t care for being told to calm down, but never could refuse Maedhros and hoped to take comfort from his presence, if nothing else. He returned to the stone bench and sat heavily beside Maedhros. “She decided to leave the city,” he said eventually, “and I _told_ Turo when they were leaving Nevrast that she would not fare well if he meant to keep his land sealed off but neither of them have ever listened to me and Irissë insisted that she wanted to go with him and not to stay with me. Apparently, he wanted her to come here for a stay but she wouldn’t have it and so struck out for Himlad, even after losing her escorts along the way.”

Maedhros sighed sadly. Headstrong siblings certainly did run in both of their families. “I had word from Tyelko some years back that Irissë had been there while he and Curvo were away but that she only stayed some months. No one thought anything unusual of it, apparently, and presumed she’d simply tired of waiting and returned to Gondolin,” Maedhros said. “Do you mean she never returned?”

“Oh, she returned, only days ago and with a son,” Fingon said. “But her husband followed – some outcast Sinda or Avar who dwelt as lord in that black woodland by Himlad – and he refused to allow his son to remain with her. He would have killed the boy before staying in Turukáno’s court, but Irissë…,” Fingon struggled against his cracking voice, “she took the wound, and its poison consumed her.”

Then Maedhros pulled Fingon into his arms again and held him close. 

“I didn’t even feel it, Timo,” Fingon whispered roughly after a long while. “How broken is my family that I did not feel the blow of something so terrible when it befell? And now all I can feel is such evil at hand. My brother will be betrayed as surely as was my sister.”

Maedhros had no answers or words of comfort. He could not deny that it seemed to him that change was near, yet again, and that something fell was stirring. They could but prepare themselves and reassert their positions. 

* * *

It was three weeks after Maedhros had returned from the mid-winter festival in Dor-lomín, 55 years since the loss of Fingon’s sister and the first public celebration conducted in that realm since. Himring was impossibly cold that year and a deep snow lay heavy over Ard-galen that was, after 200 years, recovering from the devastation of the dragon.

The hour was late and, despite the cold, Maedhros longed to walk outdoors and look at the stars, but the skies were clouded that night. Instead he sat in his private chambers, writing and rewriting a letter to Fingon that never seemed to come out right. He had been loath to part from Fingon after his visit, more than usual, though he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was just that it was the first time he’d seen Fingon looking happy since at least Mereth Aderthad. Maedhros realized that it had also been the first time since Losgar that the shadow in his own heart had abated a while.

Deep down, though, Maedhros knew that it was still no time to speak of those old feelings or to name them for what they’d both long known them to be. There was far too much yet to be completed. Consigning yet another piece of parchment to the hearth, Maedhros sighed and sat back. As his gaze fell on the tiny portrait he kept of the gold-beribboned Prince of Hithlum, Maedhros murmured, “One day…,” before extinguishing the lantern, meaning to lie down and rest and hopefully dream of Fingon a while.

Just then, there was a shaking of all the earth, so violent that the lantern on the table crashed to the ground. A low rumbling, as of the march of a million heavy-footed, iron-clad warriors filled the air before there came a great explosion from Thangorodrim. Smoke and ash choked the sky, great boulders were thrown a vast distance, and bright orange rivers of fire began streaming down the rock face and flooding the plain. 

Maedhros stood at the window staring in horror.

The Bragollach raged on nearly a year. Ard-galen was destroyed utterly; Dorthonion lost, taking Angrod and Aegnor with her; Lothlann and the Gap were overrun with Maglor only just escaping to Himring with a small company of survivors – fortunately enough in time to reinforce the fortress and help keep Himring from falling, too. Caranthir’s land was lost and he and Amrod were forced to hastily rebuild defenses upon an isolated hill far to the south. Celegorm and Curufin lost Himlad and fled to Finrod’s caves – to which Finrod himself only just returned after being bailed out by a lord of a house of the Atani. 

The Noldor and their allies were devastated and there was little let-up after the initial strike. When word came of the King’s foray to the gates of Angband in a demand for justice – with the only possible outcome being the ascendency of a new King of the Noldor – Maedhros gave Maglor command of Himring and rode as swiftly and secretly as he could to Barad Eithel. 

Upon his arrival, instead of a relieved welcome, he found Fingon in a rage such as he had never seen in any but his father or Caranthir. The new king’s eyes burned with a fire to rival any Fëanorion as he grasped the placket of Maedhros’s tunic and dragged him into the nearest disused room.

“What in the all-hallowed name of Eru are you thinking of!” Fingon thundered as he shoved hard at Maedhros’s chest. “How do even _you_ dare to ride here after all that has just happened to our people – and is still happening up and down the northlands?!”

Maedhros took it in stride, even though he’d never seen Fingon in such a state. “I came because I know you’re hurting and didn’t think you should have to bear it alone,” Maedhros said patiently. 

“Hurting, Maitimo? Is that what you think? No… no, Maitimo. Did you not know? I am Findekáno the Valiant! Nothing hurts me, I can survive anything, I could have walked through those very rivers of fire and been unsinged, though all I loved fell around me! And now some foolish, idiotic, dispossessed kinslayer comes to my hall in the midst of war and orc infestation because he thinks I am hurting?”

“Yes,” Maedhros said.

“Well, you’re wrong!” Fingon shouted. “I’m not hurting. I’m fucking destroyed, Maitimo! My father charges out on a suicide mission – and at long last he bested your father in sheer stupidity! – and leaves me here to wear this awful, bleeding crown. And I cannot do it, Maitimo!” Fingon railed, wrenching the diadem of the King of the Noldor from his brow and throwing it at the wall as hard as he could.

Maedhros sighed and went to pick up the crown, brushing it off and checking for any damage. Fortunately, it was wrought more enduring than either the wall or Fingon’s abuse. 

“Put that on your own head if you will, but do _not_ fetch it back to me like a dutiful puppy!” Fingon cried. 

“You are the King, Findekáno,” Maedhros said softly. 

“No! You gave the title to my father as an apology. But I never held you blameworthy and so the kingship should revert back to you, where it belongs. Ask Tyelkormo or Curvo or Carnistir, they all agree with me.”

Maedhros just shook his head and held the crown out to Fingon.

Fingon shook his head back but as soon as he met Maedhros’s eyes, it was his breath that began to tremble. “I cannot, Timo… please. How can I do this? Our people are dying all around us, we are thrown to the wild winds and scattered, and how shall we ever have any hope now?”

“Now is when we fight for hope, Káno,” Maedhros said, stepping close. “Now is when we fight harder and deeper than we ever knew possible, because now is when hope is nearest at hand – just when we thought it surely lost. Now is when we hear that song in our torment, now is when the new day dawns out of the blackest night.”

Fingon lowered his head and Maedhros didn’t delay in pulling him into his arms. 

“Yes, you are Findekáno the Valiant, as you ever have been; though you are not unassailable, none of us are. A king is permitted to grieve, Káno. I daresay a king grieves more than any other, and not the least for what is lost to him in his kingship. And, yes, this foolish, idiotic, dispossessed kinslayer did ride through war and orc-hordes to be here for you. And he would do it again. It is a small matter; orcs fear the sight of me now I am uglier than they are.”

“Don’t say that,” Fingon whispered harshly. “You’re as beautiful as you were in Tirion and your fëa is brighter than ever.” Fingon’s breath caught in his throat as he quashed a sob. “Why did we ever leave there? Why did we come to this cursed place? I just want to go home, that’s all I want,” he whispered.

“I know, my darling,” Maedhros said. “One day.”

* * *

Then the months and years began to run more swiftly than ever before for the Eldar, rushing down and crashing spectacularly like a great, strong cataract. Word came first of Finrod’s capture by the chief lieutenant of the Enemy and that he had perished while attempting to aid a Mortal’s quest for a Silmaril. Finrod’s loss saddened Maedhros deeply, as it did all who’d known the eldest son of Finarfin, but equally it perplexed Maedhros for his cousin had never before shown a particular interest in Fëanor’s jewels. 

Maedhros also began to grow concerned that the jewels had come to the notice of other peoples who were, apparently, willing to embark on very stupid quests to obtain them. The Mortal, yes, but the fact that his quest was at the command of Thingol was troubling. The sons of Fëanor had their own quest to fulfill and it began to stir in Maedhros that perhaps they had delayed too long in pursuing it. Peace could only be achieved by the overthrow of Morgoth, but without the completion of the Oath, there could still be no rest for those who had sworn their oath in the name of Eru, and Maedhros’s heart was growing less patient every time he thought of Fingon and how long they had waited.

And then to Maedhros came word from Nargothrond that shook him nearly as deeply as the fiery blast that heralded the Bragollach. Celegorm and Curufin arrived in Himring, with neither hound nor son, claiming to be the victims of treachery in Orodreth’s halls and of Thingol’s people. Maedhros, who had been working tirelessly to rebuild alliances and strengthen the resolve of those united in opposition to Morgoth was concerned that two such strongholds might withhold their support of the Union he was building.

Days later there arrived by crow a missive to Maedhros from his nephew, apologizing that he would not break faith with Orodreth to add to Maedhros’s numbers, but promising that he would see any who did choose to join the fight well-armed. And therein followed Celebrimbor’s explanation of his decision to remain in Nargothrond and disavow the name of his father. 

Only Maglor’s intervention spared Celegorm and Curufin the full weight of Maedhros’s unleashed fury and spared their lives, but nothing could undo Maedhros’s curse that if they ever again took part in such evil deeds the only mercy they should have left to them would be that of Lord Nämo.

In an attempt to distance himself from the wrath his brothers had woken in him, Maedhros called to all the captains of those who had pledged their commitment to his union and asked them to meet near the Gates of Sirion in order to set a plan for a strike against Angband. All agreed to attend – Elves (excepting Nargothrond, Doriath, and Gondolin), all the Houses of the Edain as well as the House of Ulfang of the East, and such Dwarven peoples as had commerce with the Noldor.

The plan was set and agreed among them. Firstly, they would reinforce their positions in West Beleriand and through Dorthonion, then they would take the fight to Morgoth directly. Captains and sites were strategized and arranged with the tentative object being an assault upon Angband to begin on Midsummer when the light of Anor would be at its most potent and hateful to the dark creatures of Morgoth’s device.

As was so often their wont, Maedhros and Fingon remained behind after the assembly departed. Fingon stood at the map for a long while in deep contemplation, arranging and rearranging the tokens that represented his forces available for the retaking of West Beleriand. Frequently his attention fell on an uncharted mountainous region north of Brethil and Dimbar, upon which he would hesitantly place then remove some tiny blue banners. 

Eventually, with a deep sigh, Fingon stepped away and went to fetch a flagon of wine to refill his cup and Maedhros’s.

“To the good health and long life of my Liege,” Maedhros said, raising his goblet.

“Please don’t call me that, Timo. I cannot bear to have you bend before me,” Fingon said tiredly. 

Maedhros relented and pulled his chair closer to Fingon’s. “My King you remain,” he said, “though I understand your wish. Little could I endure you bowing to me were I encumbered with the crown. We _are_ equals, at least where propriety does not overrule us both.”

“Propriety can fuck itself with a very pretty sword for all I care,” Fingon muttered. “Niceties are useless in days like this.”

Maedhros couldn’t keep back a snicker. Fingon’s way with words was rather exceptional and always had been.

“Speaking of propriety fucking itself…,” Fingon said ominously, “is it true about your brothers?”

Maedhros’s faint smirk turned grim. “Every Valar-damned word of it,” Maedhros said darkly. “Only Makalaurë stayed my hand from killing them both.”

Fingon sighed deeply. “He was right. We don’t need another kinslaying, despite the gravity of the matter.”

“Laurë reminded me of Tirion,” Maedhros said quietly. “Of your father and mine, how all of this came between our families and how nothing has been right since. All I could think of was that awful day when my father beared steel against yours; how hurt and angry you looked and how I was ashamed of my father for the first time in my life – but far from the last. But when this is over, all that will be well and truly behind us, forever,” Maedhros said with new hopefulness.

“Do you truly believe we can do this, Timo?” Fingon asked seriously. “Take him on and prevail, once and for all? End the quest and fulfill the oath and return the jewels to their rightful place upon Ezollahar?”

“I do believe it,” Maedhros said with certainty. “He is vulnerable, we know that now. Despite my accurséd brothers’ attempts to interfere with the daughter of Doriath, she and her beloved came away the victors – against the mightiest of the Valar and all the horrors of his stronghold!”

“She may be more powerful than all the hosts we could muster in a century, Maitimo,” Fingon said cautiously. “She also changed the heart of the merciless Doomsman, which is far more than any other has ever accomplished in any tale. I don’t know that we could ever rival such a thing….”

“I think we could equal it,” Maedhros said, reaching for Fingon’s hand and clearly not speaking of armies and battles anymore.

Then Fingon was silent for a long while, holding Maedhros’s hand tightly. “Maitimo,” he whispered at last. “Maybe the time has come for us to set aside this claim to ‘one day’.”

Maedhros turned to Fingon in alarm, but Fingon continued. “It has been ‘one day’ since we were children in a white city and green land that I can now scarcely recall to my thoughts. Maybe we make that ‘one day’ now, this day, lest there soon be no more days or nights to be counted. If this plan fails -”

“It will not fail!” Maedhros said with such conviction, jumping up and kneeling before Fingon in a promise. “We _must_ keep hope, Findekáno, we must keep faith with one another and our people. And I know your worry and impatience, for they have been mine, too. But, Káno, the laws of our people are -”

“The laws of our people, Timo? Maybe they’re meaningless and useless here,” Fingon said desperately, “for they have so far failed to protect us from losses and harms uncounted. I don’t wish to journey to the Halls of Mandos without having known you as fully and truly as I know my own self, Maitimo…. I _want_ our fëar to be one eternally.”

Looking up at Fingon, Maedhros’s heart fairly screamed for him to yield. Instead, he fought to strengthen his resolve and grasped Fingon’s shoulder, saying, “Put away such fears, my valiant one. Too many times have we already contravened our customs and beliefs. This we must do rightly, for it is more important than anything else either of us should ever undertake. And we will, when there is no more war and it is proper and right for us to be one. Please, my Káno, say you will wait for that day?”

Fingon sighed and knew he would not shift Maedhros from his faithfulness to a rule of marriage Fingon felt increasingly outmoded. He knew that Maedhros had had some precepts instilled in him as deeply as the red of his hair and this was obviously one. Never mind what anyone else did or thought of marriage customs, Maedhros would only allow perfect purity for himself and the one to whom he would join. 

Closing his eyes and swallowing down his anxiety that there was some flaw in this battle plan of theirs that would spell disaster, Fingon nodded and gripped Maedhros’s hand again and said earnestly, “I will wait until the day I die, Maitimo.”

* * *

It was the earliest light of the longest day. Fingon was armed and armoured the last hour and unable to sit still. Never before had a looming battle made Fingon feel pale with dread. All he knew was that his heart cried out for Maedhros that morning as never before and he feared that they had but one chance for victory. In his hand, Fingon clutched a small scrap of cloth that was embroidered with Maedhros’s personal standard. It was a talisman he’d carried ever since their days of sneaking away together in Tirion, he couldn’t even say how he’d come by it, but it had never failed to remind him of what mattered most.

“I love you, Maitimo,” Fingon whispered, bringing the cloth to his lips before tucking it securely under his armour.

A noise then began to spread through the camp, excited voices calling out in wonder and joyfulness. Fingon rose and emerged from his tent to look for the source of this racket, when suddenly a trumpet fanfare rang out up the valley, the distinctive tones signaling the arrival of Fingolfin’s second son. Fingon leapt in great strides up to the lookout point of the camp and saw there in the distance a bright force, easily 10,000 strong, flying the banners of Turgon, of Gondolin, and of the chief Houses of the hidden valley. 

Fingon wept and for the first time, he was filled with the same certitude that Maedhros always had when he’d talked about this day. They could prevail, that very day, and overcome the Enemy – at long last! Fingon cried aloud the blazing hope now kindled in his heart that surely this was the new day for which all of those allied against Morgoth had longed.

Still, Fingon had intended to keep to their agreed plan as closely as possible, only now with the added strength of his brother’s realm. Maedhros would come forth and draw Morgoth’s troops into open combat first – then Fingon’s forces would close in on the west flank. It had won the day for them in the Aglareb and now it would surely win once and for all.

Then Morgoth sent forth a prisoner – the brother of the only captain to break from Orodreth’s sanction. No one could have withheld Gwindor, as the Enemy had known, and his company charged forth. They fought with unparalleled ferocity, though, and broke through the gates to assail the door of Angband itself. Fingon made the decision back Gwindor’s rash assault, even though it was contrary to the plan. He knew Turgon would stay back as long as he could, and Maedhros had not yet brought his troops in from the east, so maybe they would simply have to reverse their strategy and Maedhros’s forces be the hidden flank.

Only, a new onslaught of orcs issued out from the gates which then stood between Gwindor and Fingon’s soldiers, such that Gwindor was cut off from aid and Fingon found himself fully engaged and driven back with great losses to the noble House of Haleth. Turgon then unleashed his strength and the two armies cut a swath through the orc-horde as they fought toward one another to combine their strength. 

When Turgon broke through to Fingon’s guard, the brothers rushed to clutch one another in a fierce embrace. Then Fingon shoved his brother back and shouted above the din of war, “You might have told me!”

Turgon just laughed and said, “Now, why would I do that? And where are our kin? Was this whole thing not the plan of -”

In the eastern distance was heard a ringing of trumpets as the full force of the Fëanorions took the field, Maedhros’s banner flying at the vanguard as the eldest son of Fëanor’s house hewed down enemies left and right, like a living, walking flame.

“The day is come,” Fingon said, a smile of hope and confidence lighting his gaze as he clasped Turgon’s shoulder and turned to rejoin the fray, charging his warriors now to make their way toward Maedhros’s people.

Then came the Great Worm, and in his wake, demon-maiar of shadow and fire, driving their way between the forces of the sons of Fëanor and the sons of Fingolfin. Still Maedhros fought fiercely and was making headway… until their rearguard revealed their treachery and began to attack from the south and eastern flanks while orcs poured in against the northern front.

With the Fëanorions fully engaged, one of the towering flame-creatures then turned toward Fingon and cut through many of the strongest and bravest warriors Fingon had ever known. It bore directly toward Fingon, clearly bent solely on the King of the Noldor, and for a frantic moment, Fingon looked around to see who might rally to him. Turgon and his followers were likewise sundered from the main host and fighting for their lives against these new terrors. 

All of Fingon’s personal guard fought long and well, but at last it came to single combat. They fought on together what seemed hours. Fingon was beginning to think he had the monster on its back foot and just needed to withstand a little longer. He drove forward again, shouting in rage, when a great, burning thong suddenly whipped around him from behind and held him fast. The pain was so great Fingon could not even cry out. 

The shadow-and-fire loomed before him and seemed to cackle as it raised a great, blackened axe. In one last desperate moment, Fingon looked out to the field. The last thing his eyes beheld was the tallest of the Elves, wild, fire-like red hair splattered with black orc blood and cutting down everything that had the misfortune to get too near his left arm. 

‘ _Oh, Eru, he is beautiful!_ ’ Fingon thought, then uttered defiantly through the pain that was already overtaking his senses: “You are not the only spirit of fire upon this field!”

Then the Balrog brought its axe down upon Fingon’s silver helm and the last thing Fingon knew was a grey-cloaked figure lifting him upward and away from the battle, the land, the very air itself, and the words, “One day…,” whispered against his consciousness.


End file.
